Rocket Quest
by Tsochar
Summary: You cannot in any pokemon game - barring some freakish tabletop RPG - become a member of Team Rocket. Unless, of course, you have a lot of imagination, a lot a determination, and a lot of hope. Grell has those in spades.
1. I Don't Have Any Pokemon

Not an auspicious start. It seems that, stumbling around in the darkness, I have woken someone up. Presumably this is the person whose house I am burgling. Awkward. This mystery homeowner then proceeds to ask me for the time. I warily oblige, informing him that it is 1:15 AM. This is a lie. Just goes to show how much of a rough customer I am.

I am a pretty rough customer.

My companion seems shocked at the number of minutes I have listed. Perhaps he suspects my ruse. I whip out my trusty knife, ready to silence his inquisitive questions. Actually, I just stand there talking. I don't have a trusty knife, see. I blew all my credits on hookers. And ether. Yeah, ether…

So, turns out I am not in a house at all. I have blundered into the winter-cave of a deranged hermit mystic. He welcomes me to the world of Pokemon, a world I have inhabited for, oh, I don't know, maybe **my entire life**. He claims to be a both a tree and a scientist. Then he morphs into a beach ball with ears. I flip shit. I can't even listen to the rest of what he's saying. In my panic, I tell him my name. He morphs back, promises me dreams and adventures, and casts a spell on me. My bones splinter and my body screams as I turn into a tiny doll. The stranger promises he'll see me again shortly. Everything flashes white.

And I awake in a daze on the floor in my mom's attic. I have a headache the size of Mount Silver. Fuck. I am never doing ether again.

* * *

I crawl downstairs and immediately my mom accosts me. It seems my pokegear is back from the repair shop where, presumably, it was getting the bloodstains cleaned out. Probably not my blood.

Great. Now she's asking me what day it is. Monday, duh. I'm not stupid. Yes, I know how to use the phone, mom! Geez! Whatever. I blow that popsicle stand (i.e. my house) and saunter over to Elm's lab.

He requests a favor. I decline. He refers to himself in the third person. I roll my eyes. He offers me a rare pokemon. I take them all and run, beginning a life of crime that culminates in me becoming Giovanni's right hand man. Actually, I just take one. It has a fire mohawk on its back and is totally lame. I hope my Team Rocket buddies don't see me with this dumbass pokemon. They're not actually my buddies, per se, but they will be when they see how cool I am. That'll be totally awesome.

What, heal my pokemon? No way! Hardcore Rockets like me don't heal our pokemon. Pokemon are just tools for evil, Elmo.

He enters his phone number into my address book. Try as I might, I can't delete it. Great. The damn thing just got repaired and it's broken already. Just great. As I'm leaving, the professor's aide forces something into my hands. I hope it's ether.

There's a woman right outside the lab. She comments on my pokemon's beauty and expresses her intention of taking it. I panic and flee.

Okay, Grell. Stay cool. You lost her.

I'm wandering through the deep grass now. A rattata pokes its head out of a hole. Shit. Rattata are super-powerful. All I've got is this dumbass mohawk-mon. Fortunately, I'm able to run away. I guess the rattata had already eaten. Here comes a sentret, eyes blazing with primal fury. I skedaddle.

And now I'm in another town. I quickly head to the mart to buy some poke balls and ether. They don't have poke balls and ether. What they do have is awakening. I buy twelve. Awakening is like coffee, right? Only one way to find out.

* * *

When my mind finally clears, I am lost somewhere in the wilderness. I don't feel so hot. I stumble into a convenient building, my eyes popping and my ears ringing. My mind seethes. A man in a suit who somehow knows my name greets me. He claims to be working for Dr. Tree, the shapeshifting magician of nightmares. He gives me an egg. I'm not entirely sure, but I think this means we're having sex. I put the egg in my backpack.

Turns out he got the egg from an elderly couple. I'm not entirely sure, but I think this means he cheated on me. I whip out my trusty knife. No, wait, I don't have a trusty knife. I just get increasingly confused and angry. It seems he has talked about the egg with Professor Elm as well. He's just sharing his egg with everyone.

I thought we had something special.

The suited man casts a spell invoking tree spirits that turns the innocent scientist in the corner into the terrible Dr. Tree. Shit! He recognizes me!

* * *

Whenever life gets me down, my therapist says I should focus on happy thoughts. So I'm not thinking about you, tree-man. And I'm not thinking about that bastard who gave me an egg and left me. I'm thinking about Giovanni. Giovanni wouldn't let strange men harass him. He'd sic his pokemon on them and they'd be torn to ribbons. Standing there amidst the carnage he'd brush some stray tatters of flesh off his suit, straighten his tie, and laugh that deep laugh I've always imagined he has.

But I don't have a suit. I only have these stupid clothes my mom got for me. And I don't have badass pokemon. More like bad hairdo. Fucking fire-mole. I try my best impression of a manly guffaw. Somewhere along the way out of my throat, it turns to a gurgle.

Oh shit. Tree-guy just implanted me with some sort of tracking device. I try to run but the rat-bastard restrains me. He tells me to rest, and my world goes dark. When I wake again, he's still standing right there. I whimper a little and crawl out the door. He watches me go.

Bastard.

Having my location known at all times is going to be problem when I join Team Rocket. My buddies will be all, "Hey you want to do some crime?" and I'll be all, "Fuck yes I do," and they'll be all, "Sweet. You kick so much ass, Grell." But then the cops will find us and I'll get us thrown in jail and they'll hate me forever. So I gotta find some way to remove my Pokedex.

A wimp would run home, crying for mommy. But if the conversation I just fantasized about is any guide (and it is), I'm no wimp. I'm a badass tough-guy Rocket. And badass tough-guy Rockets don't run home. We walk. At a dignified pace. And we only cry a little.

I start the long walk home. But before I can get anywhere, Elm calls me, wailing about his problems. I'm too busy with problems of my own to pay any attention. Whatever happened to him can't be as bad as what just happened to me. And if it is, then at least I'll have someone to cry on and comfort and hold.

In a platonic, manly way.

Somebody bumps into me. He is very rude, but what can you expect from a redhead? He calls me a wimp. I brandish my trusty knife, ready to retaliate. Or at least I would, if I had a knife. Instead, he sics his blue-skinned demon-fanged hellbeast on me. I throw mowhawkmon in its path but he is swiftly eviscerated. Fucking worthless.

Still, it must have sated his bloodlust because he refrains from mauling me. The ginger brute announces his name, proclaims his intention of becoming the world's greatest pokemon trainer, shoves me aside, and runs off. What a moron. There are thousands of trainers in the world and only one can be the greatest. The odds are just absurdly low. You might as well try to win on the lucky number show. It requires a hell of a lot less effort.

There was an old man sitting there, watching the whole thing! I could have been slaughtered and he did shit! Motherfucker! When I confront him about this, he says he can tell I'm a rookie. Then the arrogant asswad offers to teach me how to not suck so much. Sputtering in fury, I decline.

Everyone in the whole world is a jerk.

* * *

Finally back home. Unfortunately my vision was clouded by rage so I stumbled into Elm's lab instead of my own home. I march towards Elm, fully intending to chew him out for calling me in the midst of a severe emotional crisis.

Shit! Cops!

Just one cop, actually. Even so, my blood runs cold. I cup my hands around my mouth, trying to smell my breath. Will he notice the ether? I hope not. What I wouldn't give for some gum. Or charcoal. I heard that works. I just won't open my mouth. I'll exercise my right to not exhale.

He says a pokemon was stolen by a young male with long red hair. Unable to help myself, I blurt out that a similar individual recently tried to murder me. The pig asks me what the psychopath's name is. I fill him in. I feel kinda bad for betraying someone to the fuzz, but Rival has it coming. I hope he rots in jail.

The cop hurries out, presumably to administer swift and brutal justice to the bully. Elm asks me about Mr. Pokemon a.k.a. the cheating bastard. I shove the egg into his hands. I don't want anything to do with Mr. Pokemon or his crummy egg. Elm is physically knocked backward by the force of my bitterness. I tell him about the pokedex. He is so horrified that he starts stuttering. After spinning some bull about me becoming a champion, he actually talks some sense. He suggests I take the pokemon gym challenge. Genius! Dr. Tree won't be able to detect anything unusual in my movement patterns with his tracker. And since I'll be moving from town to town a crime spree is practically guaranteed. Thanks, Elm. I guess you aren't always a doddering old man – just most of the time.

He suggests I talk to my mom before I go. Fuck that. Why would I talk to her? She'd just go on about wrapping up warm and getting lots of sleep and eating good food. No way, Elmo. This bad boy's hitting the road right away.

As I'm exiting the lab, a problem occurs. After mohawkmon's death, I don't have any pokemon. Elm's aide fixes this problem by hooking me up with some poke balls. Sweet.

* * *

I trot out of New Bark Town, ready to make my merry way in the world. Immediately I am accosted by someone who reveals himself to be my stalker. He then reveals himself to be a shitty stalker. He doesn't even know how many pokemon I've caught. What a moron. He offers to show me how to catch pokemon, which I assume is a metaphor for rape. I say no. Oddly enough, this makes him cease his sexual advances and return to lurking in the weeds. He's the worst stalker ever. I really couldn't care less. I have a mission to fulfill. Operation Catch a Rattata must succeed. Right now, though, I'm not seeing any. Instead I'm being bombarded with owls. It is highly unpleasant.

But soft, what is this noble beast upon which I gaze? O pink-tailed stalwart! O lord of the field! Pray, lend me thy majesty!

Time seems to slow as the ball flies from my hand. It (the ball, not time) spins through the air, bounces, swallows the rattata in a burst of crimson light, and rolls to a stop. A few twitches later, the day is mine. I am ecstatic. My first pokemon! I decide not to give it a nickname. Nicknames are gay.


	2. A Dead Zubat in My Backpack

My victory parade takes place in Cherrygrove City. Since my eyes are locked forward and my head held at a proud angle, I have no way of telling if the citizens are gazing at me with awe and envy, but why wouldn't they be? I'm a conquering hero. I just wish I'd conquered someplace a little less lame than "the city of cute, fragrant flowers."

Perhaps my head is at _too_ proud an angle, as I bump into a woman and fall to the ground. I decline her offer of help, which is probably why she never actually offered it in the first place. She asks if I've talked to the old man by the pokemon center. I have. He was very rude. She says he'll put a map of Johto on my pokegear. This is Cherrygrove slang for giving me a mystery gift. For riding my bicycle. For playing my pokeflute. Extreme violence is the long and short of it. More long than short, really. Excruciatingly long.

I decide to quit town. That old man may have some vendetta against me or he may just take pleasure in the agony of others. Either way, he is a negative influence on my development. The spirit of the road beckons, and I eagerly answer. In this particular instance, the spirit of the road takes the form of a weedle and my answer consists of beating it into submission. During the scuffle, the spirit of the road manages to poison my rattata. Her skin rots, her bones turn to grey mush, and all her lovely purple fur falls off. I take my trusty knife and release her from her agony, sending her to the happy hunting grounds. At least, that's what I would do if I had a trusty knife. Instead I just watch her writhe until I'm sure she's dead.

I trudge back to the Cherrygrove pokecenter to grieve, sample the free cookies, and play god. The senile sadist doesn't overly concern me; he's probably already forgotten his bloody threats. But I want my rattata back and the miracles of modern technology combined with complete disregard for the sanctities of life and death are gonna make that possible. I hand over rat's pokeball to the lady at the counter. She places it on the life machine, zaps it with pseudoscience, and returns it to my eager hands. It could just be the radiation, but it looks like the ball has acquired an enchantingly unholy glow.

My rattata looks a little harrowed from her soul-sundering return voyage from the land of the dead, but that's nothing an excessive amount of fighting won't fix. Fortunately for her, that's exactly what I have planned.

I restart my northerly trek. Another weedle is encountered and quickly dispatched. My carnal joy at the kill is lessened somewhat by a sudden realization. While I _have_ obtained a brutal fighting machine of a pokemon, I am still no nearer my goal. Team Rocket's never gonna notice me if I keep up these humdrum antics. Crime needs doing, and I'm just the guy to do it.

Watch out, world. It's crime time.

I start my ruthless spree of lawlessness by stealing a berry from somebody's tree. I consider eating it, but I'm still so full from all those cookies. I put it in my backpack instead. THAT JUST HAPPENED. Taking things to the next level, I leave the path and walk **all over** the grass. I'm sure there's a sign somewhere telling me not to, but I don't care. I'm a badass rebel. Society's laws mean nothing to me. The world is my cloyster.

My actions have caught the attentions of a local pidgey. It expresses its disapproval by murdering rattata. Maybe I shouldn't have used tail whip so much. Regardless of the reason, it's back to the pokemon center for me. While rattata is brought screaming back into the world of the living, I move from the cookies to sampling the free cake. Pokemon centers are wonderful things.

Refreshed and slightly bloated, I yet again head north. I crush a ledyba and a weedle like the bugs they are, but my rattata (a.k.a. miss can't handle a little poison), once more kicks the bucket. God fucking damn it. Jesus, rattata. Man up. Now I have to drag your putrid-ass corpse all the way back to Cherrygrove. Thanks to you, the only crime I'm guilty of is being incredibly disappointed. In you. It's not really a crime but that doesn't make it any less true. You have let everybody down, but particularly me. Way to ruin everything, rat-ass.

* * *

Crime time needs a boost almost as badly as rattata needs to stop being such a pathetic little failure.

Almost.

While I'm pondering where I can aquire some carbos and how in hell I can inject it into an intangible entity, and idea strikes me. No, wait, it's a mugger. He claims I look weak. This shows that he is either talking to rattata or that he is astoundingly stupid. It would seem he is the latter, for he tries to defeat me using a rattata even frailer than my own. A mere three tackles later, his pokemon is a red smear on the grass and I am triumphant. An idea strikes me, this time for real. Now that my foe is helpless, I turn the tables and mug him. Yeah! 64 credits! A couple hundred more fools like this one and I'll be able to afford that carbos. As for how the injection will work, we'll cut that shrub when we come to it. The important thing is that now I have a focus.

I advance to the next guy, stomp him flat, take his money, and move on. Way to use tail whip, dumbass. Buoyed by this success, I take some time out of my busy schedule to read a sign. It tells me not to steal pokemon. Poke balls are, it claims, only to be used on wild pokemon. What a load of bull. Just to show the sign who's boss, I resolve to steal the very next pokemon I see.

I charged towards a blue-haired woman, ready for some villainy. But instead of unleashing pokemon to defend herself, she spouts some crap about eyes. Oh great, a poet. No sense robbing her. She probably only has a cafe mocha, a beret, and a shitload of angst. I get out of there before she can relate her sob story to me in anapestic trimeter or some such crap. Only blank verse for this bad boy.

Filled with righteous anti-poetic rage, I fail to notice the bug catcher. He announces his intention of stuffing me into a very small space. Never one to back down from a challenge, I yelp and cower in alarm. Rattata swiftly falls to his brutal caterpie assault and I flee before he can make good on his threats. In my terror, I drop half of my hard-earned cash. Nice going, Grell.

Ah geez. Mom's calling me. Can't a guy have a little peace? Is that so much to ask? No, you have to control every single second of my entire life. Ugh. What do you want now? Yes, I'm going on a long trip. I'm sorry I didn't tell you mom, but... mom. Mom, I'm sorry. I said I'm sorry. I'm... what? You... um... I guess? Yeah, go ahead and save me money. Yeah. Thanks, mom. I know. Yes. Love you too. Bye. I know. Bye. Goodbye, mom.

Yeesh. Mothers.

I find another poet. This one's going on about light and exploration. Moron. I also find some antidote, a far more welcome discovery. It's high time I took a break anyway. I pop into a nearby cave and get ready to relax. When I awake, it's nighttime. I have a blazing headache and I'm holding a zubat. That antidote must have been some good stuff.

* * *

One bloody battle later, I have money in my pocket, a dead zubat in my backpack, and a stranger's number in my phone. I'm gonna wait three days to call. I'm not desperate.

I finally arrive in Violet City. In the pokemon center, I chat with an old man. He says that three years ago, Team Rocket was up to no good with pokemon. And if it's wrong to be turned on by that statement, then I don't want to be right. Apparently some goody fucking two-shoes prick broke the party up. If I ever find that kid, I'll kick his ass so hard it'll come out his mouth.

I chat up some other townsfolk. Their conversation is mostly tripe, but I do hear an interesting story about a haunted tower. This sounds like just the ticket for a handsome, manly adventurer-type such as myself. I'll save this town from ghosts, and then maybe vandalize a few public bathrooms. Gotta keep up a reputation.

Omigod, omigod, it's Wade! He's totally calling me! Should I answer? I'm gonna answer.

Hi, Wade (omigod). You're right, it is nice out. A bug catching contest? Oh, I don't know. I'm kinda busy. But sure, whatever. I'll go. Yeah, see you there.

Omigod! He totally asked me to go bug catching! Eeeeeeee!

Suddenly I realize that entire exchange was outrageously homosexual. Grell Silverstein is many things (such as handsome and manly), but he is **not** gay.

I delete Wade's number.


	3. Tower of Terror

I enter Sprout Tower. There is a mustiness here that seeps from the floorboards and grapples its way to the darkened, shivering rafters. It smells old, the kind of old that ferments in ill-tended gardens and the dark corners of libraries – gloomy places where time comes to die. If ever there were a building in need of haunting, it would be this one. And if ever there were a guy who could do some serious _de_-haunting, it would be me. But I'm going to need some intel first. I shall require the scoop. I'll have to ken the skinny, dig? What with information being so crucial to my mission and all, I spend a minute questioning the local bums who live at the base of the tower, jotting down key points in my notebook. I would do that, anyway, if I had a notebook. Instead I beat zubat savagely whenever anybody says something important. It's much simpler, it's far more therapeutic, and hopefully the trauma will brand it all into her memory.

The basic gist of what I discover is that Sprout tower was built long ago around the corpse of a giant pokemon. Initially, it was intended to be a place of training. Somewhere along the line, it (rather unsurprisingly) became host to a fanatical death cult. If you make it to the inner circle, a dire task indeed, you learn the HM of the cult's grand master. Presumably HM means something along the lines of "Horrid Motive." No doubt this secret knowledge that man was not meant to know will enable the swift removal of ghosts from the tower and will earn me the praise and admiration of humble townsfolk. It's all rather exciting. The thought of becoming a blood sacrifice inside a burning effigy is somewhat unappealing to me, but I decide to take the risk. Cultists are typically encumbered by robes, see, and I pride myself on my ability to speedily retreat. Besides, Giovanni wouldn't be scared of some dumb ol' cultists, so neither am I. And think of the power I could wield once the forbidden knowledge becomes mine. During the month or so it would take me to lose all vestiges of sanity, I could become a fucking crime lord second only to the big G himself.

I ascend the stairs to the outer circle.

* * *

The most prevalent features of this floor are a constantly-shaking central support column, massive gaping holes in the floor, and a mist as thick and coagulated as my mom's (in)famous pikachu stew. I see how it is. The cultists have constructed a devilish pit of sacrifice here and are using the mist to hide the bloodstains. They probably eat their victims too. Sick. Don't get me wrong – I'm all for abusing the trust of my fellow man. But I go about it the Team Rocket way (a.k.a. the cool way). They've got matching outfits and catchphrases and a sense of honor. These people are just psychopaths and cannibals. They are an insult to the good name of crime and they must be eradicated.

There's one of them now. He's spinning in place, obviously trying to escape his guilty conscience. Sorry, buddy, but that won't work. Luckily for you, I've got just the thing that will. I introduce him to my trusty knife. Repeatedly. Ignoring his pleas for mercy, I toss him into the same pit where the accusing remains of his victims await with rotted flesh and grasping hands. He screams as they tear at his flesh. Poetic justice and whatnot. It is very ironic.

Even more ironic is the fact that I can't do that, since I don't have a trusty knife. Actually, it's not really that ironic. It's just incredibly annoying. Lacking any knife-based alternatives, I walk up and introduce myself.

His name is Nico, or so he claims. If not for the whole deranged cultist thing, I'm sure he'd be a very nice old man. But he worships the tower we stand in. He attributes to it an indestructibility that I very much doubt it possesses. He has named himself after an herb. And he never says as much, but his very presence on this floor implies that he wants to feed me to his tower-god via its death-pit mouth. Irrational devotion, murderous impulses, and a crazy name? These are the window into a very sick mind. I attempt to cure it in the only way I know how – I throw zubat at him and hope for the best. She tries a new tactic this time. It mainly centers around her not being so goddamn terrible. She doesn't do as well at it as I had hoped, but she gets the job done.

Nico dismally says that he couldn't beat me because he's too weak. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. Now, on top of everything else, he's got an inferiority complex. I take pity on him and decide to spare his worthless life. We fall to talking and I ask him why he became a cultist.

"The flexible pillar," he replies, "protects the tower."

"Even from earthquakes?" I mockingly ask.

"Even from earthquakes."

I'm impressed. He is clearly well versed in talking mystical bullshit. That, or he was an architect. I suggest that he goes back to this profession. He turns away. His silence speaks volumes to me. It's all so clear now. Nico doesn't want to be a cultist, but the elder's powerful HM magic keeps him here. Once I learn the HM, I can free him (and all the other cultists) from the elder's wicked bonds. And when they re-enter society I can blackmail them, threatening to reveal their former status as cultists unless they fork over huge wads of cash. Fear not, dear Nico, for help and eventual betrayal are on their way!

My zeal is so great that I take the stairs to the next level two at a time.

* * *

The floor of this level is conspicuously clean of bloodstains. _Too_ clean. But the lack of any distinguishing red marks makes it laughably easy to spot the item that's just lying on the floor, out in the open. I am about to pick it up when I realize something. This item is almost certainly cursed. After all, I'm in a fucking tower of terror. The wallpaper alone has claimed the lives of sixteen men. It has a lovely floral pattern and it reeks of evil. Come to think of it, that narrow corridor up ahead is probably trapped. Scythe blades will spring from the walls to gut me and then flames will blast down from the ceiling. I'm far too important to be scythed and burned so I force zubat to take point. Who gives a shit if _she_ gets killed by a trap?

Well, she doesn't get killed by a trap. She gets killed by a bellsprout. Not just an ordinary bellsprout, mind you, but a hippie bellsprout. Its cultist owner keeps going on about coexistence and cooperation. Hah! My dad says that "cooperation" is just another word for higher taxes and freeloaders. I'm betting that's the sort of thing he says, anyway. I've never met him. And whenever I ask mom about it she gets all weird and looks at the wall and says I don't have a father. But I know I do because Elm told me so and he's too old to lie.

When the time comes and I've mastered the eldritch secrets, I don't think I'll save this guy. Dad wouldn't approve. "Grell, my boy," he'd say, "the world doesn't need any more socialists. It's time you did what this man's mother should have done the day he was born." I'm pretty sure I can't go into labor, but I can certainly abandon him to a lifetime of magical servitude in this creepy death tower. Screw socialists and screw socialism. What have they ever done for me? I'm so enraged that I mutter to myself all the way out of the tower, shaking my head as I go. Once outside, I head back to the pokemon center to take advantage of the free food and free health care.

* * *

I have a spring in my step and a song in my heart. This might be due to the adrenaline rush from climbing all those stairs or it might be from the little something that nurse put in those pokebrownies. Wowza! I'm on cloud nine and I intend to use this high ground to great advantage in my next fight. Should blaggards try to scale my castle walls, I will drive them away by pouring down boiling zubat on them. Boy will they be sorry.

This plan has all the characteristics of brilliance: it makes use of metaphor and it adds to the agony that is zubat's life. Unfortunately, I never get a chance to enact it. The next blaggard I fight turns out to be yet another cultist and he's using the same damn pokemon all the others do. Bellsprout really have a way of bringing a man down. They crush the soul, so it's somewhat poetic that zubat crushes their skulls. It is also quite gory. I am a bit shocked, to tell the truth. I didn't think zubat had it in her. Succeeding really isn't her style. Musing on this surprising lack of failure, I ascend to the final level.

* * *

This small chamber resonates with the screams of doomed souls. Here and there these wails take on an almost physical quality, resembling walls and floors and creepy old sods in robes. But that is naught but an illusion. Here is a realm of pure sound – a symphony wrung from damned throats and given purpose. That purpose? To kill. The discordant melody enters my ears and slithers to my brain. I cannot help myself now. I heed its malicious call. Rage fills me, yet my thoughts become clearer than they have been in a long, long time. Forget pokemon. I go for the neck. The first cultist falls easily enough. The second, too shocked to react in time, coughs up blood as I slam him into a wall. The third tries to put up a fight but his bones snap like balsa wood in my powerful hands. I leave him weeping on the floor and charge snarling at the Temple Elder. Only by slaying him can I release the vengeful spirits now lodged in my very mind. He laughs, sidesteps, and flips my feet out from under me. I keep sliding and coast towards a pit. My scrabbling fingers just manage to gain purchase on the edge. I hang there for my life.

Someone looms over me. I look up into the leering face and crimson hair of Rival. He stomps on my left hand; I yelp and let go. He raises his foot above my right hand.

"No hard feelings."

His boot connects with my fingers and I hear a crack. My grasp slips. I plunge into the engulfing darkness.


End file.
